


The Born King

by ValmureEld



Series: Legend of the Sword Deserved Better So I'll Write it All Myself [5]
Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Banter, Bravery, Casual Arthur, Character Study, Close Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Kindness, Not a romance, Palace life, Protective Arthur, Protectiveness, Sparring, Throwing the palace workers for a loop, Wrestling, alternate perspective, assassination attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 11:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11080542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValmureEld/pseuds/ValmureEld
Summary: Miriam, a palace servant from 15, had been raised on tales of the born king while growing up under the rule of a tyrant. The changes Arthur brings are like the smell of rain after a thunderstorm and she isn't quite sure what to do with a king who doesn't stay up in his ivory tower and frown down judgement.Alternate perspective on some of the more significant points in the movie and beyond, during Arthur's very early reign.





	The Born King

**Author's Note:**

> I love how genuine and humble Arthur can be towards other people ground beneath an oppressive heel. I had several mini scenes in my head about how he might continue to surprise people as king so I created Miriam as a window into that life. 
> 
> I'm super tired. Again. So that's my disclaimer. Also, warning, there is an attempted (very non graphic) rape in this story. The guy doesn't get very far and I barely suggest what's happening but if that's gonna bother you please protect yourself and don't read it.

Miriam had heard of the born king her whole life. Her mother had whispered tales of him in the dark, barely daring whisper as black leg patrols crept past outside. She'd prayed for him every morning and comforted herself with thoughts of him every night. And when she turned fifteen and was forced into service to Vortigern as a palace worker she kept hoping every day, every task that things would change. 

She washed blood off the block and the blade at the poisoned roots of Vortigern's tower and she prayed. She took maggot filled bread into the dungeons and watched hollow men devour it anyway and she prayed. She turned her head away from the cries as a boy too young for war and too young for rebellion was dragged away with red paint on his fingers. 

And she prayed.

Things so desperately needed to change. 

A cold wind swept the land one morning and she startled awake, red hair hanging in disarray as she tried to get her breath back. She blinked, turning to look out of the window in the servant's quarters, careful not to wake the girl beside her. Bare feet stung on cold stone but the sight outside made her forget everything. The water level had dropped overnight, and something was gleaming in the riverbed. 

For weeks after, barges began to arrive, filled to creaking with young men old enough to be the king Miriam had spent her life looking for. Every spare moment she managed to scrape out of the castle's groaning walls she watched, hoping he would show just as fervently as she hoped he wouldn't. She knew what would happen should Vortigern find him.

And then, one day, he did. 

The first time Miriam saw her king, his hands were bound and his feet were tied so closely he could only shuffle. She stood there at the edge of Vortigern's crowd, her hands white as she clutched them on the apron that would soon be stained with this young man's blood, and never had the urge to run been so strong as it was in that moment. Her king. This was her king? 

She knew deep in her heart that he was. Bound as he was, hollowed out with that expression of grief in his blue-fire eyes, she saw an edge to his jaw and a power in his shoulders that the others never had. There was anger and defiance behind his grief, and over the crowd she could hear the paw pads of the pacing lion inside his breast. When they pushed him to kneel and tied him down, she blinked furiously and set her jaw, determined to see this through. She watched the cords in his neck twitch and seize as he struggled to keep his head up, his fingers clenching against each other. 

She had seen the river a beheading created, had mopped up the lifeblood spilled by her usurper a dozen times. If the only way she could honor her true king was to watch his execution and stain her knees with his royal lineage, then so be it.

Chaos erupted. She was knocked to the ground, but when she was able to break out of the press of bodies the chopping block was empty and for the first time she dared to hope. 

After years of waiting, the months after were a blink and a breath, and suddenly she found herself bound to the service of a new king. She only glimpsed his coronation at a distance, but the entire atmosphere of the castle changed. The old servant's quarters were opened back up and suddenly she had her own bed and a pouch of silver at the end of every month. The kitchens became busier because the new king enjoyed eating with others, and though it wasn't required Miriam made sure to taste the dishes before sending them out. Arthur had nearly died so many times for them already, she would gladly take poison meant for him in turn. 

She only ever heard him or of him in passing. He was a living, breathing presence in the castle and around it. If Vortigern had been the palace's shadow, Arthur was its beating heart. 

Arthur had been king for a whole two months before she truly got a good look at him. 

The first time she saw her born king free and laughing, he was in a headlock. 

Miriam stopped short, a bowl of fruit in hand and a towel slung over her shoulder, unable to keep from staring. Arthur and his closest knights, almost all of them bare chested and simply clothed in trousers and boots, were in the courtyard wrestling like boys. George had the king in a tight lock, and Arthur was wriggling like a hooked fish, every line of muscle standing out as he finally pulled his head free and rolled, springing back to his feet with a surprising grace as he spun, grabbed a stick, and launched himself at his opponent. George fell back accordingly, rolling to grab a staff himself and the crack of wood on wood soon echoed off the stone between encouragement and friendly jeers from the others. 

She'd seen Vortigern spar against his men, but it had always been a solemn, aggressive affair. They were there to serve to sharpen his edges, to be beat and never to win. Rarely had Vortigern disrobed, and while he was strong, he'd been all fine lines and porcelain skin, his muscles sculpted for grace and magic. Not a single movement was uncalculated. 

Arthur was raw power and a playful vitality, taking hits as often as he doled them out. His skin was flushed with health even though it was patched with scarring, and every movement was one of enthusiasm and joy. 

There was a loud crack as Arthur's staff collided with George's, and he pressed his heavier frame forward, backing George up in a flurry of dust. Sweat dripped down Arthur's body and he was grinning, the light of playful competition in his eyes. 

“Getting slow in your old age, are you George?” he ribbed, landing two more rapid blows before Geroge ducked and soundly knocked Arthur's legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard and wheezed, but it didn't phase him enough to stop him. He flipped himself over and sprang at George, forgoing the staff and tackling him full-on. George grunted in surprise and smacked Arthur with his staff before he lost his grip on it, and both men toppled into the dirt. 

“That's cheating!” Bill shouted from the bench, tossing a rag at Arthur's dirt-covered back. “Let him up, this is supposed to be sparring not street wrestling.”

“Oh leave off George had him in a head lock not two minutes ago,” Tristan said, making a dismissive gesture. 

“Truce,” Bedivere announced, walking over to the two and nudging Arthur's thigh with his foot. “The poor girl has been standing there with the fruit bowl and water for ten minutes.” 

Miriam flushed, shaking her head. “No sir, I'm fine please don't disturb--”

Before she could finish her apology Arthur picked his head up and looked right at her, his hair a mussed mess. “Why didn't you say something sooner?” he asked, half accusing as he got up. The sweat made the dust stick to him and he was quite the sight. “Sorry miss, didn't mean any disrespect,” he said, coming over to her. She felt her entire body grow hot. She tried to drop her gaze. And couldn't. He was much taller than she was and ridiculously well built and even him sweaty and smelling like dirt and musk couldn't put her off. 

This was her king. What in the world was she doing not only in his presence but in his presence so casually?? He was talking to her like an equal.

And then he really shocked her by not only apologizing but taking the bowl from her himself. His fingers brushed hers and he smiled, giving her a friendly nod in thanks as he went back to his men. Bedivere graciously took the water jug from her and he too thanked her. 

That was only the first encounter. 

The next one she was in the kitchen, humming while she worked and chopping potatoes for the second batch of stew they were preparing when she heard his voice.

“Ohh it smells heavenly in here what are you ladies working at?” 

She froze with her hand on the knife, looking up to see Arthur in the doorway, casually making his way around the work area. Her brain skipped and then skipped again. The king was in the kitchen. The king was never in the kitchen he wasn't supposed to even know where it was, in theory. He shouldn't have to know. 

And yet here he was. King for nearly four months and still walking the palace in leather pants and a cream shirt—albeit a little nicer and a little cleaner than usual. 

“You mind?” he asked, gesturing to the pot and picking up a wooden spoon. He paid little attention to the stricken expressions and dipped the spoon into the stew, pulling some up and blowing on it before taking a careful sip. He closed his eyes and hummed. “Oh that is lovely, well done.” 

He nodded his approval, dipping the spoon back into the pot and stirring. Just then the new head of the kitchen returned and she spotted what he was doing. She frowned and planted her hands on her hips, looking at him like he was a naughty five year old. “Arthur Uther Pendragon, I don't care if you are the king now, you know the rules about tasting when you aren't cooking. Never mind putting your spoon back into the pot when it's just been in your mouth.” 

Arthur smiled, leaning his hip against the counter. “Now Thea, I wasn't hurting anything, just telling the girls what a good job they've been doing.”

“They know they're good, they've been working for me,” she said, bustling through the workers and smacking Arthur with a towel. He shied away, grinning all the more. “Now out, less you plan to make yourself useful and peel potatoes.” He made a face and she lifted her head in triumph. “What I thought.” She nudged him with her foot, edging him towards the door. “Out. Go on.”

“Right, alright, I'm going,” Arthur protested, catching her towel when she whipped it at him again and tossing it back in her face before he took off running. She sputtered and yanked it off her head, chasing him a few steps before giving up and returning to the kitchen. 

She stood in the door for a moment and the entire kitchen stared back. She made a tutting noise and gestured with both hands. “Oh rot he's gone and stricken you all. He's my king too don't misunderstand but you didn't see him doing that exact thing in the brothel kitchens when he was yay high.” She held her hand below her hip. “He's trouble in a kitchen, unless you put him to work and he hates peeling potatoes.” 

With pay came freedoms, though it took Miriam a full month and a half before it clicked that she was allowed to leave the palace when she didn't have duties and spend her new purse how she liked. It was on one of these outings that she saw another side of Arthur that hadn't manifested itself at the palace. 

A young woman, barely Miriam's age was walking quickly through the market, her eyes darting like a deer's. Miriam tightened one hand on her shawl and another on her coin pouch, looking for what or whomever must be following. The man showed quickly enough, and Miriam didn't have time to cry a warning before he used his larger body to corner the girl in the gap between two crumbling houses. Knowing what was about to happen and powerless to stop it, Miriam turned her head away and walked faster, trying not to hear the girl's begging or her cries for help. 

They were soon muffled, but a moment later there was a sharp, sickening crack and Miriam whirled around, eyes wide. The man was on the ground, unmoving, and Arthur was standing over him, his jaw set harshly forward and his normally warm eyes icy. The would-be rapist's blood stained Arthur's knuckles and Arthur shoved the man aside with his foot, rolling him onto his back and looking down at him like he was lower than dung. Momentarily, he turned to look at the girl, who was breathing shakily and clutching her torn dress closed, crouched against the wall. Her head was bowed and she was trembling. 

Slowly, very slowly, Arthur sank to a crouch, his voice softer than Miriam imagined it could be. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, waiting for the girl to lift her head and look at him. She managed to look up and her eyes went wide, hastily dropping her head again into a bow. 

“Yes—yes thank you, sire.” 

He shook his head. “No need for that, my name is Arthur.” He held his hand out, the scarred palm upward and his expression gentle. “Can you stand?” 

She stared at his hand, slowly reaching out her own. When she clasped it his returned grip was tender and he slowly stood, pulling her with him. His every movement was cautious, nonthreatening, such a contrast to the storm of anger he'd radiated against the girl's attacker. 

“Here, take this I've plenty more,” Arthur said, shucking his jacket and settling it around the girl's shoulders. She gripped the edge of it in surprise and looked at him, searching him in a way Miriam remembered doing herself. 

“Thank you, sire.”

“Arthur,” he reminded gently, offering his arm. “May I see you home?”

She'd been working in the palace under the new king for over a year when there was an assassination attempt. A traitor, angered that his lands had lost value and his purse its excess with the change in leadership managed to pay a small army to corner the king at a diplomatic safe house while all of his knights were away. Miriam was only there by pure luck. She'd been staying at the inn nearby visiting her sister when she saw men moving towards the house she knew Arthur was staying in. Nobody knew but palace staff, and she'd been horrified to realize that either Arthur did not have a guard or they were already dead.

The men were many, and Arthur was alone. They thought they had him. 

Clearly they hadn't seen what he could do with Excalibur. Miriam hadn't either, but she'd heard the stories and after seeing Arthur in so many unexpected situations she was inclined to believe every one of them. 

She dove beneath a table in the great hall, wincing when the thud of arrows hit the wood above her with a threatening finality. Arthur was cut off and surrounded, but instead of calling for his guards or pleading or attempting a bribe, as she was sure other kings would have done, she heard the rasp of Excalibur being drawn from her sheath. 

A blue flash struck the room and time seemed to shatter as a gush of displaced air and the sharp tang of magic filled the room. Swords clanged on sword, and the shouts and groaning of angry, dying men crawled through the hall after their bodies. Arthur was very soundly winning and Miriam was starting to relax when she heard him cry out and she gasped, praying that the boy she'd sent to fetch help would return soon. 

Why she'd chosen to follow Arthur into the den instead of getting the guards herself she couldn't remember in that moment because suddenly Arthur came into view and then stumbled, falling hard on his back right beside her table. Blood was running down his temple and he hit so hard Excalibur skittered away. Miriam's heart was in her throat and she acted on pure adrenaline fueled instinct. 'She shoved a chair aside and grabbed Arthur's shoulders, heaving with all her might to drag him beneath the table just in time to avoid the arrow meant to pierce his breast. She threw herself across him, not thinking of anything but keeping him alive, keeping him safe. The enemy was still coming, but for the shortest moment they'd lost sight of him. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her and she felt his hand on her back, his head turned towards the battle before he looked up at her, nodding a breathless thank you. 

“Lie still, my king,” she whispered, daring to reach up and dab at the blood near his hair with the edge of her sleeve. He blinked, furrowing his brow as he watched her and she didn't let herself shy away from him this time. She kept her hand placed protectively over his pounding heart and she promised that hers would stop before she would ever let something happen to his. She didn't know when she'd started to love this legend turned man that she'd grown up praying for, but she did. 

“I will retrieve your sword,” she promised, and before he could stop her she got nimbly over him, rolling out from under the table and scrambling beneath another to reach out and clasp the priceless weapon. It hummed and pulsed with energy, and trying not to think too much about it she shoved it back towards him with a clatter, staying hidden as his hand shot out and gripped the handle. That blue light was back again, but this time it came as a flare in Excalibur's runes and the glow in Arthur's eyes. He looked at her with an eerie, inhuman gaze and nodded once before rolling back out and continuing the battle. By the time help arrived, his would-be assassins were dead. 

Arthur came over to the table she was still under, kneeling and ducking his head to look at her. “You can come out now, we're safe,” he assured, offering a hand that Miriam decided to take. His scar was strange against her palm but he was warm and his grip was strong. 

“Thank you, sire,” she said, knowing he would correct her but unable to think of calling him anything else. It was just too weird, too disrespectful.

“Arthur, please. My name is Arthur it is okay for people other than my knights to use it,” he said, resting his hand on Excalibur's hilt. “What's your name? I know you work in the palace. Did you follow me here?”

She flushed, suddenly embarrassed. “No, sire not here from the palace. I was visiting my sister and realized you were in danger. I came to try and help...my name is Miriam.” Her own explanation sounded stupid now that she said it out loud. What help had she been?

“Miriam,” he repeated, saying her name like he intended to remember it. “You shouldn't have thrown yourself in like that but you saved my life.” She felt his eyes on her and he waited until she met them. “Thank you.” 

“It is the least of my duties, your highness,” she said, able to keep her head up this time because she meant it. She meant every word, and suddenly she wanted him to know what he meant. “My mother told me tales of the born king when I was barely old enough to understand them, but I grew up with that hope protecting me my whole life. I've been praying for your reign a long, long while. You freed us. All of us. If I can repay that debt even by a fraction by protecting you, then I would gladly do anything necessary.” 

Arthur, for the first time she'd ever witnessed, did not seem to know what to say. He looked at her, worked his jaw a little, and bowed his head for a moment before the door burst open and he turned toward it, tensing for just a moment before he realized it was the guard. He glanced back at her, and though the moment was gone Miriam saw a gratitude in his eyes before he fell away into answering Bedivere's flustered, worried questions and assuring Tristan that, thanks to her, he was alright.

**Author's Note:**

> So this went a little further towards romance than I'd originally intended but bottom line is Miriam has a little bit of a crush on him at the beginning (who can blame her) and then it matures into this deep admiration and love for a man who's willing to do everything for his people.


End file.
